The philosopher returned to the pallid figure upon the grass, with a demeanour that was curiously out of key with the dignity of his natural character. “Luney, old boy!” he cried, flinging his hat in the air, “Joe Cox has got out the great Gunn.” Although this thrilling announcement had no significance for him whose head was propped upon a coat against a brick wall, a gentle smile crept across the gaunt features. “I am sure that must be--must be very nice, Jimmy,” he said, “very nice indeed.” “Nice!” exclaimed the philosopher, almost fiercely, “what a word to use! To say, Luney, that you set up to be a scholar you do use the rummest lingo. Joe Cox gets out the great Gunn, and you call it ‘nice’! James Dodson don’t pretend to be a scholar, my son, but he knows better than to call Homer ‘nice’!” William Jordan suffered this rebuke in a melancholy silence. He seemed to understand how thoroughly it was merited. He lay for the better part of that stifling August afternoon propped up within the shade of the brick wall. In spite of his earnest entreaties Jimmy Dodson could not be induced to forsake him. His mentor would climb up on to one of the neighbouring coigns of vantage, and standing on tiptoe would snatch a few brief, but inexpressibly sweet glimpses of the solemn ceremonial that was being enacted. But ever and anon he would return to see how his stricken companion was getting on. Rest, and the mellower influences of the late afternoon served to place William Jordan on his legs once more; and although his brain roared as though it contained the waves of the sea, and his limbs ached, and his whole frame shook so violently that it was as if he had been smitten with a palsy, he declined to admit that he was other than restored completely to health and vigour. He was fearful lest he should wreck the plans of his mentor more completely than he had already done; therefore summoning every spark of resolution to his aid, he vowed, even if he were to perish in the effort, that he would accompany his kind friend to the restaurant; and thereafter to the Alcazar Theatre. He dined in state at a gorgeous house of polite eating, yet it was scant justice he did to the sumptuous fare. Mr. James Dodson was frankly disappointed at this further manifestation of his companion’s shortcomings, yet he dissembled his feelings in an elegant preoccupation with six courses. To the repeated inquiries as to how he felt, Mr. William Jordan returned assurances which, if allowed to pass muster, could not in any sense be said to carry conviction. And at last Mr. Dodson was fain to exclaim, “Look here, my son, if you don’t eat something soon, you can’t possibly go to the Alcazar.” And although Mr. Jordan was not in the least desirous of going to the Alcazar, he made quite suddenly a superhuman attack on a banana in order to save himself the humiliation of being a source of further disappointment to his mentor.